


could you love me one more day?

by athousandvictories



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Because I Thrive On Shared Obliviousness, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Sexual Tension, morons to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22571692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandvictories/pseuds/athousandvictories
Summary: Even the tips of his ears are rosy, maybe because of the way the girl is squirming on his lap. He's making pleasant conversation, biting his lips and then licking over them at intervals, when he's searching for words. Certainly drunk, then.He could have been in bed with the girl long ago, but Geralt knows by now that he likes this, likes whispering flirtatious nonsense, and sipping from his cup of mead, and sending winks at Geralt.Geralt wishes he wouldn't.Jaskier and Geralt fantasize repeatedly about how badly they do not want each other. Also, they do not care about each other. And any domesticity is unintentional.(Luckily, being travel partners is a temporary arrangement.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 188
Kudos: 1764





	could you love me one more day?

It's a warm summer night.

There's a woman in Jaskier's lap, and she's leaning in to kiss underneath his jaw, her mass of curls crushing against him. His skin glows pink in the firelight. He's drunk, probably, and the apples of his cheeks are painted strawberry-bright, the same color as the silk of his shirt. Even the tips of his ears are rosy, maybe because of the way the girl is squirming on his lap. He's making pleasant conversation, biting his lips and then licking over them at intervals, when he's searching for words. Certainly drunk, then.

He could have been in bed with the girl long ago, but Geralt knows by now that he likes this, likes whispering flirtatious nonsense, and sipping from his cup of mead, and sending winks at Geralt. 

Geralt wishes he wouldn't. And not just because he's trying not to imagine Jaskier fucking this girl (or _anyone_ , really) in any detail. It just makes it all the more obvious that this--Jaskier, with him--was not meant to last. Jaskier loves people, and people love Jaskier (even though he can't keep his pants on--perhaps _because_ he can't). Geralt's not sure Jaskier's ever paid for a whore in his life, though he certainly looks at them. He can charm nobles out of their coin as easily as he can charm women out of their clothes (and possibly men, though it shouldn't--doesn't--matter, to Geralt, who, exactly). 

He's young and pretty, and _painfully_ charismatic. Geralt himself is proof of that, the latest victim to Jaskier's magnetism (well, not the latest, anymore). It's got to be clear that Geralt doesn't _need_ to let Jaskier follow him about, drag him into parties he'd never attend and shops he'd never buy anything from, and conversations he doesn't want to have and fantasies he _definitely_ doesn't want to have.

It's fathomable that he'd _want_ to keep the bard around, of course. He's been getting twice as many contracts now, since Jaskier runs in useful circles, and worms his way into the ones he isn't in already. That isn't it though. Geralt travels with Jaskier because Geralt is a friendless monstrosity who talks to his bloody horse, and he genuinely likes it, at least in the rare, precious moments when Jaskier's mouth is shut.

Does Jaskier know that, and revel in the power of it? Will he wink at this woman, later, tangled in damp sheets (Geralt will not allow Jaskier's uncovered body into his imagination, not after just one ale), when she asks him how he came by a witcher? The same _how do you think?_ wink he's giving Geralt now? 

The fingers of Jaskier's free hand flutter, then curl as the woman shifts again.

It doesn't matter. Geralt will find him in the morning, and ask where he's heading, and leave his face blank, whether Jaskier says, "towards the monsters, dear Witcher," or not. 

  
+

  
It's a warm summer night. 

Jaskier can feel the flush on his cheeks, but he knows better than to blame it on the weather. He's still half-drunk on honeyed mead, and he's just had remarkably good sex. 

In addition to those luxuries, this inn is comfortable, the most civilized place they've been in weeks, and Jaskier should have fallen asleep half an hour ago. Instead, he's staring up at the ceiling, enjoying the tuneless humming in his head, the boneless warmth in his body.

Then there's a loud creak, and Geralt comes in. Jaskier thinks there's a flash of surprise in his amber eyes; perhaps he'd thought Jaskier would be away longer with--Catherine? Caelwen? No matter. 

Flattering, though. As if any of Jaskier's lovers much care whether he stays the night. Hardly. Jaskier cannot remember the last time he was with someone who had both the desire and marital status necessary for him to stay.

The planes of Geralt's body shimmer in the candlelight as he pulls his shirt over his head, and Jaskier swallows, turns his head aside. It's wrong to look when Geralt certainly does not want him to. It's hard though, hard to ignore the _goldness_ of Geralt, hard to ignore the way the fire ignites his hair at the edges. Hard to ignore his amber gaze, hard not to beg for it with every action he takes. Hard not to have it ruin what was supposed to be a pleasant night, apparently.

It's--he hadn't realized quite how fucked he was until now. Rather pathetic, taking a pretty girl to bed and then immediately forgetting about it in favor of a witcher who tolerates him by a very narrow margin. Who any day now, will give him a stern, cold look, that says _do not follow me_. Jaskier will follow anyway because he can't help it, until Geralt is forced to say it out loud. Then he'll go. By now he likes Geralt too well to deny him what he wants. Even if what he wants is the absence of Jaskier.

No matter. He can hope for one more day.

  
+++

  
The day is green and humid and lush. 

Jaskier feels guilty for looking. Yes, again. It's becoming a recurring theme in the sad, sad symphony of his life.

Geralt's washing. He has his shirt stripped off and the waist of his pants rolled down, exposing the lines of muscle that slope inward from the edges of his torso. His hair is damp, but still bloody, and actually, his whole torso is lightly streaked with blood, which isn't--anything. It's not anything. Geralt leans down over the stream to wring his hair out, and Jaskier looks away, _tries_ not to think about his hands in that hair, pulling Geralt's head back to expose his throat.

It's hard. _He's_ hard, almost, and Geralt's just--standing there covered in drops of water, with the noon sun reflecting off him. It feels like very personalized torture.

He takes a stroll into the trees, which sort of helps bring his rational brain back into this. His stream of consciousness has too many tributaries, at the moment, and as usual, his cock is the worst offender.

Gods, he's disgusting. Just following a witcher around the Continent to lust after him when he's unaware. Gods.

He can't leave, though. Won't leave, by now, and it's not just because he's a fucking pervert that wants to gaze on the work of art that is Geralt's body as often as he possibly can. Largely because this, the monster hunting, and Geralt's--everything--inspires his own works of art a great deal. Also because he's got a nagging worry that one day Geralt will be washing off his own blood, with no potions to slow the flow of it, because he's been stoned out of whatever town has the herb he needs, and--ah. It's a silly thought. 

Geralt doesn't need a nursemaid, doesn't need Jaskier's songs or his vaguely competent medical attention. It's only a pleasant illusion Jaskier indulges himself with. It's that or think about licking honey off Geralt's entire body, which is fucking ridiculous because food in bed has literally never gone well in his reality.

Maybe the honey fantasy is better though, actually, since he's already got a large bit of his mind dedicated permanently to worrying whether Geralt's alive. Would that go away, when Geralt inevitably leaves him behind and he's back to orbiting the fringes of high society, a passable talent with passable lineage? Will he spend the rest of his life aching and fretting and reminiscing?

Probably. Right now, though, they are three days from any sort of civilization, so it's a problem for another day. At least three days from now.

+

  
The day is green and humid and lush. 

Geralt actively refuses to appreciate it. Dark forests full ferns and ivy, fine, but leshens are a pain in the arse, and he's got bruises everywhere from falling and rolling into a fucking rock (hidden by the ferns) before he killed this one. Also, Jaskier is watching him wash the blood out of his hair from the treeline, and being as unhelpful as possible. 

Not that he's sure what helpful would be, in this scenario. Ceasing to exist, probably. He twists his hair out over the ground for the fourth time--the water is still grey, and his shoulder aches, and even with cold spring water, frustration sears his skin from the underside. He's half willing to just go another three days covered in muck. Would, if he didn't know that Jaskier would forcibly wash his hair.

Not an acceptable scenario. Jaskier needs to keep his hands to himself, definitely does not need to put them on Geralt's hair. Or the nape of his neck, for that matter, or along his spine, or anywhere near his cock, which Jaskier has _never_ suggested, and _fuck_.

He goes three days without a fuck and he's already--gods. He glances over his shoulder and Jaskier is gone, of course. He's never there when Geralt is doing anything remotely vulnerable, which is fair, since Jaskier isn't depraved. Jaskier charms his lovers into bed, instead of lusting after them silently.

It's actually lucky for him Jaskier's got enough sense not to want him. The wide scar across his back from the latest alghoul would have healed ugly, if Jaskier hadn't wheedled him out of his armor and stitched it shut with calm, clinical hands. Clinical touches are not what Geralt wants from Jaskier, but they were certainly helpful in this instance.

He'd like to know why a nobleman's son can push a needle through torn flesh with hardly a tremor in his fingers, thinks there must be a story there. Or perhaps the hands _had_ been shaking, and he simply hadn't noticed through the cloud of vodka and potion Jaskier had made him down. 

Not usually a wise idea to mix the two, but it's not a wise idea to want to fuck your traveling companion either. Geralt's given up on wisdom these days, apparently.

He hopes these days don't end too soon, all the same.

  
+++

  
The tavern is too loud.

"I'm going," Geralt says, beside Jaskier's ear, _to get the room_ , is what he means, and that's perfectly normal. Still, Geralt's breath across the side of Jaskier's face, and the low rumble of his voice so near him is a dangerous thing. He's had enough drinks to let himself wonder what he could _make_ Geralt say, if Geralt wanted him to.

How would Geralt beg, if he was brought to the edge and denied? Would he growl orders, or rumble out obeisance, or just look at him with blazing golden eyes? Hmm. All three very pleasing options, for all that they hinge on an impossible scenario. Once, two pints would not have been enough to make him like this--it's probably all the ballads he's been writing to blame. His imagination is honed. Vivid. It's about practice, honestly.

Living with Geralt is just--deeply gratifying. There's infinite fodder for his songs (Geralt may hate them, but everyone else doesn't), and for his filthy mind (he's accelerated from denial to acceptance pretty quickly, with regards to that). Also, he secretly revels in how habitual it's become, the cycle of wilderness-village-wilderness-city. How Geralt buys the ale this time, and Jaskier the meal, and Geralt the room, and then they switch the next time, with neither of them having to say a word about it.

Jaskier likes words, of course, but there's a solidity in this. Something that promises another day after this one with Geralt being exciting and gorgeous and dependable at his side.

One more day.

+

The tavern is too loud.

Jaskier's hearing cannot contend with the roar of noise that humans are compelled to create wherever they exist in groups of more than five. Geralt has to lean in close to his ear, speak into his hair. Dark hair that is damp and curling with the exertion of the day and smells tantalizingly _Jaskier_ , warm and sweet. Jaskier nods, faintly, knowing what Geralt means, and his fingers flicker on the table. It's an odd, nervous, gesture, and Geralt, still dizzy on the scent, lets it get to him.

What would Jaskier be like, in bed? Would he want filth whispered into his ear? Would he shudder to feel a faint breath against his face? Would his fingers curl in Geralt's hair?

_Fuck._

Geralt tosses _that_ thought aside, pushes some coin to the innkeeper, hauls the packs up to the room he's led to.

They carry a lot, too much, Geralt wants to say, but it's all needed. Bedrolls, his swords, Jaskier's lute, are bulky enough. Along with that though, they've got Geralt's saddlebags. Those were heavy before, when all they carried were basics: potions and bandages, straps and twine, cooking implements, soap and salt and thread. Now they are absurdly full, stuffed to bursting with all that Jaskier has added. 

And even though he ribs Jaskier about his devotion to little luxuries, it's hard to resent sitting before the fire with a mug (before Geralt had drunk from bowls, mostly) filled with hot tisane (Jaskier got this from his herbalist friend, apparently, but it's so tangy-sweet Geralt suspects she's more than his friend), and bread with butter on it (Jaskier is oddly good at bartering with farmers), and meat that would have been tough and bland otherwise stewing with four different spices.

The end result of having so many things is that it's all just _theirs_ now. They've long since stopped having separate packs even for clothing. Jaskier keeps clean(cleaner) things in his bag and dirty things in Geralt's.

Geralt's been trying damn hard not to get used to it, but it feels oddly permanent. An unspoken promise of one more day.

+++

It's too cold out.

Geralt's body (faster and warmer and stronger, and gorgeous) radiates heat into the grey bleakness. Jaskier lets himself orbit that warmth without shame, today. Drizzle mists down around them and he tries not to notice how it plasters Geralt's shirt to his back, outlining the ridges of muscle underneath. The body that he wants, wants, wants, wants. Geralt should have to wear a goddamn cloak, like everyone else. 

Jaskier's wearing it instead, because Geralt grumbled about being sweaty, and said Jaskier's cloak was shit, which is--true. He's still cold with Geralt's layered on top of it.

In a way that's good; it's easier to distract himself from Geralt's body when he's so bloody uncomfortable. Easy to mull over his own personal misery, how fucking cold it has to be if Roach is _steaming_ under the weight of their packs (and a bloody warg pelt), how pissed off he'll be if they don't find a roof before dark. 

Squelching through swampland sort of implies a hope for, well, non-swampland. He's forgotten to wonder if there will be another day. 

+

It's too cold out.

For Jaskier it is, anyway. His teeth are clacking together from time to time, which should be bloody annoying, but Geralt directs his vexation at the rest of the universe, this once. Jaskier's spent enough months on the road to harden him. His palms have become as calloused as his fingertips from carrying firewood around, and he endures cold with grace for the most part (though Geralt banks the edges of their fires higher, now that Jaskier's proven himself able to roll into them in the middle of the night).

He's just human, and needs to be warm, so yes, Geralt is irritated on Jaskier's behalf. If he wasn't out here putting down drowners they'd be in a room with a fire in it, and he could make Jaskier shiver from not-the-cold, make him shudder apart with his hands wound tight in Geralt's hair. Anchoring Geralt down for once, in a single place.

It's a pointless fantasy, but he's angry, and it's been awhile, honestly. He wonders what Jaskier would even say, if he told him. 

_Let me suck your cock, Jaskier._

He might not even leave, might just laugh him indignantly off and nudge him in the direction of the nearest brothel. If Jaskier was easily put off, he wouldn't have come into this fucking swamp. 

+++

It's a good day, and Jaskier's made them a lot of coin.

Geralt's damn lucky the coin is _theirs_ , today. Though by now, the time when they had bothered to keep tracks of who bought which round of ale is almost beyond memory.

Jaskier had earned it though. He'd spent the night nearly singlehandedly preventing what might have been a rather nasty brawl between two noblemen. Geralt's not sure exactly which variety of ambitious idiots they are-- there's too many of their like in the cities for him to take any interest in who is a count or viscount or baron or baronet. But every time they'd been seconds from drawing steel in the Earl's hall and causing all kinds of mess, Jaskier had begun a lively new tune, and the Earl's daughter, a tall, handsome girl with a hard-set jaw would ask one or the other for a dance.

In retrospect, Jaskier had almost certainly been hired for this task exactly, and maybe that's also what's earned them such a nice room in the Earl's keep. It's absurdly clean, with a large hearth, and windows, and a bowl of fucking fruit on the table. Geralt eats most of it, since he never eats well at elegant banquets. If Jaskier wanted pears--well, it's his own fault for not being there.

The bed is also huge, easily big enough for both of them, and they've shared smaller, but he's not going to take it. For one, because Jaskier's earned it, and also because it's not exactly noble to lie there and inhale Jaskier's scent, and imagine the smell of sweat and lust and sex on top of it (and Jaskier on top of him). Not when it's a massive, clean, room, and he doesn't really need to. 

He tosses their cloaks and bedrolls out over the floorboards in front of the hearth and rolls himself in his own cloak, and it's still twice as comfortable than anywhere he's slept for two weeks.

He should be able to fall asleep, but he doesn't for a while, lets himself revel in the scent on Jaskier's cloak, the dark, sweet _security_ of it. Jaskier's an anchor, almost, a point about which to pivot in a string of strange places, and no, that's a dangerous thought.

Geralt had seen the Earl draw Jaskier aside, at the party, say something that made Jaskier bow theatrically with his hand on his heart, had seen the tall daughter grin at Jaskier over the shoulder of her bloodthirsty charge, eyes bright with genuine merriment.

One more day has become a precious thing again.

+

It's a good day, and Jaskier's made them a lot of coin.

He doesn't know when exactly the coin had become _theirs_ , but they've been sharing rooms and food and beds (and even Roach, sort of) for so long, that it just _is_ , now. Geralt earns more in the wilder places, usually, and Jaskier in the more civilized ones, like here, and it's just become easier to leave it all in Geralt's coin purse.

He stays late at the party, like usual, until he's sure that his intervention is no longer required. He's convinced that the Earl's daughter Tabitha is the only other attendee who's so exhausted. When he finds his way back through the absurdly long hallways to their rooms, Geralt's already asleep on the floor in front of the fire, like some kind of noble idiot.

Jaskier pauses with his toe an inch from nudging Geralt awake to make him get in the fucking bed. Maybe it's not right to, not when he'll be lying there inches away, imagining how it would taste to run his tongue between Geralt's collarbones, to kiss a long stripe up his throat and into his mouth. Also, there's the fact that Geralt will definitely thrash and thump him in the head, since he's horrible at sleeping. 

In the end, he doesn't have to decide, because Geralt (the _worst_ goddamn sleeper on the Continent) opens his eyes and sits up halfway, bracing his forearms against the floor. Geralt sees the toe, and narrows his eyes at it, and Jaskier slides it away from him a little.

"Get in the bed," he says, because Geralt loves to be ordered about, and doesn't know it.

"Hm." Geralt says helpfully. What took so long?

Jaskier rubs the bridge of his nose. "Fuck."

Geralt nods, smiles a little. "See, you've earned it."

"Ah, but you slept on the floor in Maribor, and I said I'd make it up to you."

"I'll probably kick you," Geralt says, but he gets up off the floor.

"Probably, but that's alright. I can fend for myself by now I think. I'll just roll onto your limbs if you move them at me."

"That a threat, bard?" Geralt's voice is low, and a little rough, since he's just woken up, and it _does_ things to him, damn it.

"Sure," Jaskier says, and leaves off unlacing his doublet to pinch the fabric of Geralt's shirt, and he's--he's just got a fucking death wish, is what. "Take this off, it's positively putrid."

Geralt rolls his eyes, and wrenches it off. "Better?"

"So dramatic," Jaskier snipes at him, and then he sees he single pear in the bowl on the table. "Was this full?"

Geralt only grins and throws himself gracefully backwards onto the bed, which Jaskier has never seen done, so that's infuriating, and also sexy. Except it _isn't_ because this is _normal_ , and because Geralt is a damnable pear-thief.

He crawls ungracefully onto the coverlet like a normal person, crosses his legs in front of him and looks over at Geralt, who is studying the ceiling.

"You damnable pear thief."

"Thought you wanted to share things."

"A bed. Not pears. I have _boundaries_ , Geralt, I might not seem it, but I do."

Geralt flicks his eyes at him, and there's the ghost of a smirk in them.

"I do!"

"Are you going to stay?" Geralt asks, his tone perfectly even.

"Here?"

"I saw the Earl proposition you, I think."

"Ah yes, the generous Earl. And all his less generous underlings, appreciating my talent with gritted teeth. Feels just like home." He tents his hands in front of him, frowns over them into the almost-darkness. "Tabitha would prefer I did, certainly. Would make her Lord-wrangling easier, I suspect." Jaskier chews his lip. "Nonetheless, she'd have no patience for me over an extended period of time."

"No?"

"No, Geralt. She's--probably going to run away with Lord Ector's daughter, if you hadn't noticed."

"Ah."

"Yes, _Ah_. Why are you asking? Do you want me off your hands?" Jaskier suddenly feels cold. It's rare Geralt is this committed to a line of questioning. He stiffens before he can remind himself to be calm, that he's had his fair measure of days.

"I want you to be happy." Geralt turns his head again, looks up at him.

Geralt doesn't break from his gaze and Jaskier has a plummeting realization that this is it. The time to ask the question he's been asking, every day for so many months, the question he hadn't realized he was asking at all. 

And if not--well, he could stay here and let Geralt follow his Path away over the horizon.

He twists to face Geralt, sets a hand against the side of his face. Geralt doesn't immediately brush him off, but he shifts, and Jaskier thinks he's going to lift his hand away, maybe. He only presses his own against it, holds it against his face. So Jaskier leans down and kisses him, and for all the times he's fantasized about kissing Geralt, he hadn't once got it right, hadn't imagined the way Geralt would angle his head and tug him down by the collar, hadn't imagined the depth of it, the hot sweetness of Geralt's mouth. Hadn't known how it would feel, Geralt hefting him over his body, almost effortlessly. Hadn't guessed at the feeling of Geralt's body under his thighs or the press of Geralt's thumbs into his hips.

"You taste like my fucking pears," Jaskier whispers into his ear, and Geralt _laughs_ , and Jaskier bites him for it.

Geralt's gentler than Jaskier had imagined him though, he doesn't shove him down onto the bed, or choke him, or grip his wrists in steel-strong hands. He only bucks underneath him, kisses him back, hot and deep, presses firm, lingering palms to his back, arms, waist, like he's checking that Jaskier's real. Jaskier cannot claim the same--he's already bruised Geralt's neck with his teeth, can see the mark darkening under the skin.

Then Geralt's hands tighten above his elbows, bracing Jaskier back, and there's a heart-pounding moment where he wonders if Geralt's wide pupils and shaky breaths are another fantasy. But Geralt looks ravished, and pleased about it, and just--concerned?

Oh.

"I'm staying with you," Jaskier snarls, and leans back down to Geralt's mouth, "in case that wasn't clear."

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I know Geralt is such a sex god or whatever but I just think he has Feelings Trouble and would be very gentle and sweet ok. How easy is it to tell that I'm That Bitch that just listens to way too much Sufjan Stevens and then word-vomits out the emotional residue? Easy? Yeah. 
> 
> Blessings on you for reading, I love your comments dearly and inscribe them nightly on the walls of the happiness-crypt I lurk in when life is daunting.
> 
> (oh, and if you love reading the sappy quotes that end up as the titles of these works the day before I write them... my [tumblr](https://athousandvictories.tumblr.com/) is here)


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